AdRock’s digging through a pile of shirts on his floor, half of ‘em inside out. “Why do I only own band tees from bands I’m not even in?” he mutters, yanking out one that’s only mildly stained and smells like record dust and spearmint gum. Good enough. He throws it on, then his usual baggy jeans—worn knees, frayed hem, fits like home. Skate shoes—check. Chain—yep. Slaps his cap on backwards, then snatches his jacket and heads out, barely letting the door shut behind him.

Mike D and Yauch are already out front, loitering like they’re sixteen. Mike’s leaning on the car, twirling a lollipop in his mouth like a sitcom gremlin. Yauch’s scribbling something in a notebook, probably a lyric or a grocery list.

“You clowns ready?” AdRock says, climbing into the backseat without waiting for an answer.

“We’ve been ready,” Mike D shoots back. “We just figured you’d show up an hour late and blame the weather.”

“There is weather,” AdRock argues, like that’s solid logic.

As they drive, there’s static-heavy cassette tape noise filling the car, some weird French psych-funk Yauch found in a bin last week. The streets are mostly dead—just neon diner signs buzzing and a cat or two darting across alleys.

“So what do you think?” Mike asks, halfway through a yawn. “About this duo—Mike and the girl. You’ve heard their stuff, right?”

AdRock nods slowly. “Yeah. I been peepin’ their tape. It’s raw. Like early-‘84 basement demo raw, but she’s got flow. Weird flow, like she trips over the beat on purpose. I kinda like it.”

“She produced it too,” Yauch adds. “Whole thing.”

AdRock raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Alright, that’s something. That’s somethin’…”

Mike D grins. “So try not to be a loudmouth tonight. We’re not trying to scare ’em off.”

AdRock kicks the back of Mike’s seat. “I am the charm, thank you very much.”

Yauch chuckles. “You think everything’s flirting.”

“I didn’t say I was gonna flirt,” AdRock shrugs, messing with a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m just sayin’, if she happens to be cool, maybe cute, I dunno—I can be friendly. Professional. I’m a professional guy now.”

“You wore a Teenage Fanclub shirt with mustard on it.”

“That’s not mustard,” AdRock says. Pause. “…Okay maybe it is. But it’s dried. It’s vintage now.”

They pull up to the diner—neon red letters humming above chrome trim and foggy windows. The kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and good decisions made way too late.

AdRock hops out, stretching like he just woke up. He adjusts his hat, wipes nonexistent dust off his shoulders, and nods at the door. “Let’s meet the future.”